The North has not outlived the pain, nor forgiven the debts.The faces of the Old Gods look into the distance!The North gathered strength, avenged all its foes.And only the fallen kin do they pity! — Alesander Frey, Song of Starks and Freys.
. . . . .
The reply arrived with the speed of lightning. In it, Lord Walder wholeheartedly approved of his son's choice and blessed the young couple, but also stated plainly that the time had come for another wedding. Military actions were currently sluggish, and the absence of most commanders should not have a disastrous effect on the strategic situation. It was high time for the wedding of the Grand Lord of the North to the daughter of one of the River lords.
There was no sense in delaying. Cesare, with a retinue befitting his station, set out on the road. The excitement reigning among his companions was involuntarily transferred to him. If anxious thoughts washed over him, he had only to turn his head and look at Olyvar to calm himself—not all of Lord Walder's offspring resembled him!
Having lingered briefly at the Golden Tooth to await those lords who had further to travel, Cesare decided to attend to business, but the ledgers literally fell from his hands. Try as he might to deny it, he was as excited as a schoolboy.
Abandoning attempts to occupy himself with something useful, Cesare went down to the cellars where numerous trophies were stored. He wanted to choose a gift for his bride. The loot, which no one had even attempted to inventory, was stored in a dozen chests, carelessly mixed together. Jeweled pins lay next to blunted hunting knives and forks with worn hallmarks. In one of the chests, Cesare even stumbled upon a handkerchief yellowed with time. Most of the things he saw were fit only for melting down or required cleaning and serious attention from a jeweler. Having already despaired, Cesare was about to slam the lid shut when his eyes caught on something elegant and winged. It turned out to be a hair circlet adorned with a miniature dragonfly with crystal wings and a sapphire body. How this miracle had withstood rough handling and the long journey remained a mystery, but it was the first thing encountered in this world that Cesare could have presented to the incomparable Lucrezia without shame.
The next long stop was Riverrun, where tailors already awaited him. After long choices of fabric, cut, sleeve shape, and embroidery style for the future ceremonial doublet, Cesare went to the stables, where he selected a beautiful black mare with a dazzling white mane.
Learning of his imminent marriage, Estrel had wept a little, but then decided that no wife would caress him as passionately as she. Cesare was pleased with her.
And so, when everyone had gathered, the wedding procession moved toward the Twins. Someone was constantly calling out to Cesare and congratulating him. In short, circumstances themselves were against him pondering serious topics.
Along the banks of the river around the ugly squat towers, pavilions and tents were spread out for the majority of the guests. The most luxurious pavilion was intended for the groom—Lord Walder foresaw that before the solemn entry, everyone would want to wash off the road dust. Deft servants helped Cesare prepare for the spectacle that was about to begin.
When his toilette was finished, one of the servants reported the arrival of Lady Catelyn. Seeing him, his mother could not restrain an exclamation of admiration:
"Oh, Robb, how handsome you are!"
Oh yes, that was exactly the effect Cesare was striving for. After the bath, his hair was curled, and his sprouting beard trimmed. Now, standing in a snow-white doublet of the finest Myrish satin and a cloak of deep blue Tyroshi silk, he resembled a prince of the blood of some influential European house.
"Much of this is your merit, Mother—I inherited my beauty from you," Cesare feigned a bow.
The answer was not to Lady Catelyn's taste, but she remained silent, only pursing her lips disapprovingly. Taking her arm, Cesare headed for the horses, which had been watered, groomed, and now sported tack trimmed with silver.
The detachment that rode out of the Twins to meet them was led by Lothar Frey. He sang like a nightingale, painting the importance of Cesare's achievements. Evidently, he hoped to receive the Golden Tooth—his wife was a Lefford.
Lord Walder even rose from his "throne" to greet the dear guest.
"Everything is ready. We can begin right now."
At his clap, girls huddled in flocks by the walls stepped forward and lined up in a long row. Discouraged by such a rapid turn of events, Cesare froze in place. His gaze wandered over similar faces, some—quite childlike still.
Lord Walder paced around the line like a gallant condottiero. By some maidens he stopped, naming them and stating exactly how they were related to him.
"Here is Zhea, daughter of Tytos, my great-granddaughter. Do not mind that she is bony. Healthy as an ox. And here is Arwyn, she is a year younger than you. She has golden hands. Embroiders so that you cannot marvel enough. And here is Roslin. Is she not sweet?"
Roslin Frey was indeed sweet and compared favorably to most of her sisters and nieces. Cesare was about to name her when he noticed familiar light brown curls and huge brown eyes a little further away. It was the very stranger from the celebratory feast! In the time that had passed, Cesare had forgotten to think of her, but now he remembered, recognized her. He decisively stepped toward her and extended his hand, into which a small palm immediately lay.
"Oh, an excellent choice, Lord Stark," the old man praised him. "This is my great-granddaughter Walda, daughter of Walton, also known as Fair Walda."
Lady Walda smiled timidly at him. Cesare kissed her wrist.
"I have a gift for you, Lady Walda."
The circlet turned out to be made as if specially for her. The bride received several admiring male and envious female glances.
She was led away to be dressed accordingly for the occasion. Only then did Cesare notice that all the girls wore similar grey dresses. Lord Walder had scrimped on outfits for his daughters, but was surprisingly generous with the bride's cloak. On Walda's shoulders, it seemed weightless as muslin and shimmered due to the interweaving of silver threads.
They were led to the sept—small, but richly decorated. In principle, the ceremony and vows did not differ much from those in his past life, except that instead of a wedding ring, he covered Walda with his cloak.
They were given a place of honor, to which guests immediately flocked with congratulations and gifts. There was no opportunity to eat anything or exchange a couple of words with his wife. When finally the first toasts gave way to an uncomplicated melody, Cesare let out a sigh of relief.
"My lady," he rose and offered his hand to his wife.
Dancing with Walda was pleasant, though the local analogue of the basse danse was unfamiliar to Cesare.
"What are you pondering?" he asked at the completion of another figure.
"And what can a girl think of at her wedding?" Walda smiled playfully. "Of the future, of course."
"What practicality," Cesare teased her. "Why not enjoy the moment?"
She smiled, beautiful and airy, and the dragonfly glinted in her lush hair.
Having finished the dance, they returned to their seats and ate a piece of treacle tart with appetite, washing it down with excellent pear cider. Cesare was introduced to Walda's parents—Walton Frey and Deana Frey, born Hardyng. Fortunately, her brothers were not at the Twins, but Walton fawned for all three. During the conversation, the father-in-law hinted broadly that he was sixth in line for the Twins, and anything happens in war. Somehow disentangling himself from him, Cesare headed to the table of his bannermen, where he found a very interesting picture: everyone was listening intently to Marq Piper while he enthusiastically broadcast something, now and then starting to gesticulate.
"...and then he grabbed his sword, not even drawing it from the scabbard, and began chasing him all over the camp!"
"Our little Rose can do that! King Renly, I recall, was delighted with their joint fencing!" The witticism was met with loud drunken laughter.
"What are you talking about?"
Only then did the bannermen notice Cesare and immediately made room for him on the bench. The Smalljon placed a full goblet of ale before him, to which Cesare gratefully applied himself.
"My cousin, like all the knights of the Reach, was in Renly Baratheon's army," Piper launched into explanations. "Just the other day a letter came from him, in which he told me of a most amusing incident. The Lannisters sent Lord Baelish to negotiate with the Tyrells. In his eulogies, he spoke rather unfortunately of the late Renly. Loras endured for a long time, and then could stand it no more and began chasing Littlefinger all over the camp, now and then striking him flat with his sword. This action continued for quite a long time, until a pile of horse chestnuts treacherously appeared in Littlefinger's path. He slipped and fell into the very biggest pile. In that state, they sent him back to the Lannisters."
At the end, the grateful audience, holding back with their last strength, could not endure and burst into unanimous laughter, drowning out even the musicians. Many had heard this story more than once, but Piper's skill as a storyteller was undeniable. Cesare joined the general merriment as well. He was unspeakably glad that a careless attempt to save crumbling plans had had such success. Yes, Loras was only a third son and did not have a decisive voice, but his antic could buy time.
Besides the pleasure of the fortunate turn of events, a thought not yet fully formed beat at the edge of his consciousness, exciting and mesmerizing.
"Do you have many kin?" Cesare asked quietly, placing a hand on Marq's shoulder.
"Quite a few. My father had five sisters who married into many Houses of the Crownlands and the Reach."
His gaze slid over the faces of the vassals.
And indeed, he was not the only one. Many of these people had relatives, acquaintances, and friends in all corners of Westeros and even beyond. Sometimes in private correspondence a word or phrase might slip that could overturn all known layouts. But how to use this?
Returning to his seat, Cesare pinched off a piece of capon stuffed with apples. The cupbearer poured him fruit water—there were too many plans for this evening to trade them for drunkenness.
Unexpectedly, Lord Walder rose, leaning on his wife's arm.
"Sometimes, Lord Stark, true talents are born in my line."
At his clap, a youth of about twenty with characteristic Frey features rose from the very end of the table.
"This is Alesander, my grandson, and he has composed a song in your honor."
Cesare nodded importantly, continuing to be in bewilderment.
Alesander was handed a harp, and running his fingers over the strings, he began to sing in a beautiful velvety voice:
The North sleeps for a time, wake not the North!Many were told more than once.But a new day has dawned, and now judge for yourself,The old warning is forgotten!
King Joff gave the command and the headsman drew steel.Surrounded by lion grins.Eddard Stark was executed. And the heir called,Bannermen and loyal vassals.
The North has not outlived the pain, nor forgiven the debts.The faces of the Old Gods look into the distance!The North gathered strength, avenged all its foes.And only the fallen kin do they pity!
Winter had not come, there were no blizzards yet.When the lords gathered in council.Thus he became king and led them south.And foes had to give answer.
The North has not outlived the pain, nor forgiven the debts.The faces of the Old Gods look into the distance!The North gathered strength, avenged all its foes.And only the fallen kin do they pity!
Robb returned to friends and doffed his mail.At the Twins, that stand on the Fork.He was wounded all over, but embraced a maid.With honest joy on his face.
Finally rested, they were wed,Starks and Freys are now kin.And fires burned in the Great Hall.Everyone feasted and drank for three days.
The North has not outlived the pain, nor forgiven the debts.The faces of the Old Gods look into the distance!The North gathered strength, avenged all its foes.And only the fallen kin do they pity!
The North has not outlived the pain, nor forgiven the debts.The faces of the Old Gods look into the distance!The North gathered strength, avenged all its foes.And only the fallen kin do they pity!
The hall drowned in applause and enthusiastic shouts. Cesare removed a ring from his hand and extended it to the flushed bard.
Yes, it was not "The Rains of Castamere," but already not bad. Noticing Lord Walder's searching gaze, Cesare nodded to him—the hint was understood. In a song about friendship and unity of two houses, one word slipped through, changing everything—king. Risky, dangerous, but oh, how it soothed vanity!
Noticing Olyvar's gloominess, sitting some distance away, Cesare hurried to him.
"Why are you not merry, my friend," Cesare almost sang in his ear, "you are not sitting at a funeral, are you?"
Olyvar started noticeably. After some hesitation, he finally answered:
"Roslin is my full sister. Since childhood we have been very close. I hoped you would choose her."
"Why did you not tell me sooner?"
"I wanted to, tried to start the conversation a couple of times, but could not. After all, it is your choice, not mine."
Following his gaze, Cesare noticed Roslin. The girl was nearly crying. It was not right to leave a lady upset.
Looking around, Cesare spotted an already thoroughly drunk Theon. Excellent! With a sober head, he would hardly have agreed.
"Something is about to happen, Olyvar. Do not be surprised, whatever happens."
Approaching Lady Roslin, he invited her to dance. She opened her mouth in surprise, but agreed nonetheless.
"You should not be grieved. You will certainly find your happiness, even if not with me," Cesare declared, executing one of the figures.
"What makes you think I am grieved?" the lady parried, performing a step somewhat sharper than required.
Following the flow of the dance, Cesare changed partners, ending up paired with Dacey Mormont. This gave time to come up with an answer that would not wound Roslin's pride even more.
"It seemed so," Cesare shrugged carelessly. "Truth be told, my friend is very taken with you. When he saw you at the celebratory feast, it was as if he forgot how to breathe."
With his eyes, he indicated Theon, who was smiling quite successfully at Mallister's jokes and seemed quite a successful cavalier.
For the rest of the dance, Lady Roslin did not look at Cesare; her face eloquently expressed interest.
After the dance, Olyvar's sister flitted away to a group of peers, and Cesare immediately sat down next to Greyjoy.
"In recent days I have thought long on how we might become closer, Theon," Cesare informed him confidentially.
Luckily for him, the drunk Greatjon began bellowing "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," drawing the main attention to himself.
"You and I must become kin!" Cesare declared with all the confidence he possessed.
"You think so, Robb?" Greyjoy measured him with a bleary gaze. "But Sansa is a captive. Besides, I did not intend to marry for the next ten years."
"And who spoke of Sansa?"
Cesare pointed Roslin out to him.
"Beautiful as a porcelain figurine. And besides, she has fallen in love with you like a cat. Asked me about you all through the dance."
"Truly?" Greyjoy's tongue was already tangling. Excellent. Almost ready.
"Stark's word. Only she is too timid to approach first," Cesare dropped to a whisper. "Besides, my friend, a wedding is not such a bad idea. Who knows what might happen in war, and this way a little kraken might remain after you..."
Under the weight of arguments, Theon surrendered and headed with unsteady gait toward Lady Roslin. Cesare hurried to the main table, where a disgruntled Walda awaited him:
"Where have you been, my husband? I had time to get bored."
"I was preparing a provocation, my lady," Cesare kissed her briefly on a rosy cheek.
Rising, Cesare struck the table a couple of times with his goblet. When all eyes turned to him, a gracious smile bloomed on his lips.
"I wish to thank my loyal companion and from this day kinsman Walder Frey for the hospitality shown to me and my men."
An expression of utter satisfaction froze on the Late Weasel's face.
"However, not only I have found my happiness under this roof," a kiss to the flattered Walda's palm. "I would like to petition for my friend, the heir to House Greyjoy, who wishes to take the beautiful Roslin Frey as his wife."
A murmur of surprise swept through the hall. Most bewildered of all was Theon himself, but he continued to squeeze Roslin's fingers.
Lord Walder was nearly bouncing in his chair with enthusiasm.
"Well, who am I to stand in the way of young happiness?" he spread into a toothless smile.
"And since we are all already gathered, dressed in our finest, why not perform the rite right now?"
Cesare's proposal met with warm approval. The guests followed in a crowd to the sept, holding the groom by the elbow. There was no need to worry about him. If he suddenly forgot the vows from excessive libations, he would certainly be reminded.
Walda watched everything, chuckling:
"However, you are a devious man, my husband."
"But I won us about ten minutes. If we hurry, we can reach the bedchamber and avoid the bedding."
So they did, hurrying to be in time. Walda led him, holding his hand, as if he were blind. Her hair was disheveled, her breathing erratic. When the saving door hid them from the madness of the gathering wedding momentum, Cesare immediately pulled her to him and kissed her. Her lips held the taste of wine and raspberry tart.
Under the pressure of his fingers, the unyielding bodice quickly surrendered, and the dress settled in a shapeless heap on the floor. Flushed Walda just as deftly helped him rid himself of the doublet, not forgetting to respond passionately to his kisses.
At one moment she suddenly turned to stone and jumped away from Cesare as if from fire.
"I must say something," she put her hand out.
"You are no maid," Cesare noted, ridding himself of his boots.
"And that does not concern you?" Walda's eyes widened in surprise, becoming altogether huge.
"As long as you do not spread your legs before all my bannermen on the dining table of the Great Hall, I will not say a word," Cesare sat down beside her on the bed and stroked a small, beautifully sculpted breast. "Only be so kind, do not bring me a bastard in your hem. I do not want to see a small copy of Black Walder next to me."
She shuddered perceptibly, but this time did not try to run away.
"In truth, I want you to be faithful to me," he turned her onto her back and stroked her firm thighs. "To defend the interests not of your first lover, not of your father, not of your family, but mine, only mine."
She accepted him, digging her nails into his shoulders and throwing back her head, exposing her neck to kisses.
"You are a she-wolf now, my ally, my support," his words drowned in a long moan.
Walda jerked to the side, rolled over, and now she was on top, shaking hair from her face.
"Yes, so it shall be," she clenched, causing Cesare's breath to catch. "I will help you when there is need. I will bear you children. I will be your wife."
"My queen," Cesare exhaled.
. . . . .
Everyone was pleased. Everyone was happy, until the ravens flew in and brought black news. The Ironborn had attacked the defenseless North. Moat Cailin had fallen.
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